


So Long Lives This, and This Gives Life to Thee

by wyntre



Series: Shelter [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Disordered Eating, Fluff, Food Issues, M/M, body issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntre/pseuds/wyntre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It felt like they'd done this all before, falling in love somewhere else along the continuum and forgetting one another until they realised they needed each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Long Lives This, and This Gives Life to Thee

**Author's Note:**

> Direct Sequel to 'Only Fools Rush In'.
> 
> Title is the last line in Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 18' (Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?)

Mycroft picked at his eggs, pushing the breakfast around his plate, not eating. He’d gone for a run that morning while it had still been dark, something he didn’t normally do; and had come back to a cloche-covered plate of eggs and spinach, with a note from Anthea.

_Sir,  
Remember to eat.  
A._

Anthea had always been someone Mycroft could rely on. She always knew when something was wrong, though she didn’t speak much, and would just fix it without question. Like today. Sherlock’s latest tirade about Mycroft’s past body issues had eaten away at the self-esteem Mycroft had gained while he’d been with Greg. So Anthea, knowing her boss’s ways; had stolen in and fixed him breakfast. The politician smiled a little at the thought of Anthea. She was as close to a daughter as Mycroft was capable of having, though he suspected she was more competent in taking care of him that any daughter of his was ever likely to be.

Not that Mycroft didn’t like children. He’d just never seen the need to produce them. What was the point, when you could just hand them back at the end of the day? At least, that had been his thinking before he’d met Greg’s kids. Little Oliver, five; too young to understand why Daddy had moved out, but old enough to tell Mummy about his visit to ‘Uncle Mycroft’s house.’ And dear Ella, fifteen. She was going through a ‘goffick’ phase, something her mother hoped she’d grow out of; but Ella was likened to Mycroft’s cousin, who still wore heavy eyeliner and black lace, even though she was forty and had three children. For what it was worth, Ella got along well with everyone; except her mother. She was unhappy with the custody arrangements, the least of her complaints being that she lacked the freedom to play her music as loud as she wanted.

Mycroft’s thoughts wandered further afield, as he sat at the table; sunlight creeping across the kitchen floor. He thought of Greg, asleep upstairs. The DI had been given the week off at the request of the Superintendent, who was convinced Greg’s current lack of reasonable decision-making was the result of severe sleep deprivation. Mycroft found the whole situation rather amusing; given that the Superintendent had stormed into Lestrade’s office, turned his computer off at the wall, yelled at him for trusting Sherlock _again,_ and then hauled him bodily out of the office, threw him in the back of a squad car and drove him home.

The eggs had gone cold by the time Mycroft realised his thoughts had wandered so far. The spinach, so nicely wilted, had turned into an unappetizing green pile that he began to poke with his fork just for something to do.

“You haven’t eaten?”  
Mycroft started. “Gregory? I didn’t hear you come in.”  
Greg’s blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he busied himself with making coffee. “You know me, always sneaking about. Want tea or coffee? And do you want some new breakfast?”  
“Tea, please… And it seems a shame to throw out a good meal that Anthea put a lot of time into…”  
Greg raised an eyebrow and watched as steam curled from the mouth of the kettle. “Are you going to eat it, or are you going to sit there, poking it like Sherlock would something dead?” He grabbed mugs, and dumped an inordinate amount of freeze dried coffee in the bottom of his.  
“I don’t know how you drink that insipid rubbish, Greg.” Mycroft observed drily.  
“Practice.” The kettle started to sing, and the DI began to put together the drinks. “Why aren’t you eating?”  
“You know why.”  
“You realise Sherlock’s just projecting?”  
Mycroft blink stupidly for a moment, while Greg placed tea in front of him and sat opposite. “How?”  
Greg sipped his coffee before replying and made a face at the bitterness. “He’s in love with John.”  
Mycroft choked on his tea.  
“Well, as in love as Sherlock Holmes can be.”  
“But how does that equate to him being well…”  
“An ass? It’s very simple, he doesn’t know how to deal with it, and he sees you and I, and you know how to deal with feelings like this.” Lestrade shrugged. “He’s jealous, and petty, and small-minded. And for all his genius, he’s a bloody moron.”  
The politician smiled a little at that remark. “What should we do?”  
“Nothing. Let him suffer.” Greg grinned and gave a short laugh. “In all seriousness though, don’t worry about it.” He paused and watched a patch of dust floating in a strip of sunlight. “Breakfast?”  
Mycroft sighed a little and poked the breakfast Anthea had left him.  
“She’ll be happier if you’ve eaten something, be it her breakfast or mine.” The statement earned Greg an out-of-place scowl, to which he responded with an amused grin. He then got up and started pulling out pans.

“Want bacon, sausages?” Greg asked, yanking open the fridge and taking out eggs, mushrooms, bacon, tomatoes, butter and a couple of cooked sausages that Anthea had left wrapped in aluminium foil with a note:

_D.I.,  
If he doesn’t eat what I made him, use these.  
A._

Mycroft sipped his tea, which was steadily going cold, and said nothing.  
“Or would you rather I didn’t bother?”  
The politician got up, walked to where Greg was, about to break an egg into a bowl to make omelettes, and stilled his hands. “I would rather we did something else. I promise you, I will eat later in the day.”  
“You’ve been for a run haven’t you?” Greg placed the egg back in the carton, while Mycroft nodded. “You know it aggravates your knee…”  
“My knee is fine,” Mycroft responded, shortly. Greg made a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. “Really, it’s fine.”  
“Right.”  
Mycroft pressed a soft kiss to Greg’s cheek. “I need you to stop worrying about me, please. I promise you, I’m fine.” Greg nodded and began to put things away. The house phone decided that that exact moment would be a good time to ring, shattering the stillness. Mycroft smiled ruefully and went to answer it, while Greg placed bread in the four-slice toaster and scraped Mycroft’s uneaten breakfast into the bin under the sink.

“That was Mummy,” Mycroft said, ten minutes later as he walked back in with a grimace. Greg; who had eaten four pieces of toast with jam, and was sipping a rather strong cup of Yorkshire tea, had to suppress a giggle at Mycroft’s ‘Mummy’, even though he knew it was merely a reflex.  
“She wants me to keep an eye on Sherlock, says she’s worried about him.”  
“Do you think she knows?”  
“About Sherlock’s infatuation with John? Probably.” Mycroft smirked. “Most nothing escapes Mummy’s notice.”  
Greg settled back in his chair. “She worried he might relapse?”  
“She’s certain he will.”  
“Well, don’t go arranging the ‘accidental death’ of a prominent political figure just to keep him occupied. I can only act as your alibi once.”

***

They didn’t actually end up doing anything that day. The weather decided that using all the sunshine for a single year in a day wasn’t a good idea, so rain rolled in at ten, and stayed there. Midday saw Greg back in the kitchen, making lasagne and salad while Mycroft handled some business issues that needed to be attended to behind three closed doors.

“All fixed?” Greg asked an hour later, as Mycroft came back in. The politician nodded and smiled, but didn't elaborate on the subject.  
“I thought I smelt lasagne.”  
“I thought you weren't hungry,” Greg countered.  
“Touché.”

Greg reheated the lasagne after that, and pulled the salad out of the fridge. They ate in companionable silence, Mycroft poking the lasagne occasionally, and stopping after Greg's pointed looks.  
“Your cooking's not that bad.”  
Greg smiled a little, and reached across the table to where Mycroft's free hand was lying, and took it without a word – and for a moment, the whole world stopped.

They were something, and nothing. Greg was so new to this, and yet, Mycroft fitted him like a well-worn leather jacket. It felt like they'd done this all before, falling in love somewhere else along the continuum and forgetting one another until they realised they needed each other. And this was the way they fell in and out of love for years, and years. And Mycroft's hand in his own anchored him to the ground.

***

Later that day, after night had fallen, Mycroft tugged Greg away from the Liverpool V Arsenal game. The rain and clouds had cleared enough to see the faint stars in the London sky, and the rareness of the event forced Mycroft outside.

As they gazed at the sky, Mycroft stood behind Greg and wrapped his arms about the DI's waist. Greg stiffened for a moment, before remembering how Mycroft's arms felt, and relaxing. It was all so new to him.

 

~Fin~ 


End file.
